


saudade

by gravewalke_r



Series: ar lath’an [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Best Friends, Blindness, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fade Nerds, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-27
Updated: 2018-10-12
Packaged: 2019-07-18 03:07:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16109501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gravewalke_r/pseuds/gravewalke_r
Summary: (n.) a nostalgic longing for something or someone that was loved and then lost,with the knowledge that it or they might never return; "the love that remains".





	1. I.

She's waist-deep in the cold waters of a lake the first time he sees her; bare to the moonlight and stars that covered the endless tapestry above their heads, snow-white hair covering too much and yet too little of her slender form. It's disrespectful to stand so close, to stare for so long and he _knows_ that, yet it's not her astounding beauty nor the gentle curves of her body that gets his full attention, that traps him in a spiderweb he can't escape; she's singing quite happily as she bathes, melody and words that'd been long forgotten by the People dancing easily on her lips as if she’s sung that many, many times before.

It's a song he hasn't heard since his fall from grace, since he condemned the elvhen to disgrace and war and a never-ending life in a world made Tranquil.

(She's a spirit, she _must_ be.)

The song lures him closer and closer, like a siren casting their spell on the foolish, and his body moves against his will. Echoes of memories burst into life in his mind, images and sounds from happier times, forgotten and scattered through the wind just like his people’s history, and he clings to what’s left of his People as if it’d be enough to bring them back to the world, to repair what he’s destroyed. He falls on his knees at the lakeside, staff all but abandoned by his side as he allows himself to get lost in the sweetest voice, eyes closed as he drowns in the tune he never thought he’d hear again.

It’s a blatant show of weakness for anyone to see and mock, but he’s still weak, still shaken and powerless after too many eons of a restless slumber, after waking to a disheartening world he’s created in his blind rage.

" _Nuvenas mana helanin, dirth bellasa ma_.” She says after the last words of the song die on her throat, and the Dread Wolf recoils at the sudden memories crashing against him with a force of a tidal wave. It’s too much to remember and he can’t deal with the guilt, the shame-- not now, when he’s so filled with despair.

(He must be dreaming again. He must’ve found another friendly spirit.)

She’s **waiting** , and he lowers his head. She knows much, wise and old, a spirit like none other he’s ever met before during his travels, and he knows better than keep her waiting for so long. “ _Ar-melana dirthavaren. Revas vir-anaris_.” He finally answers, eyes still pressed closed; he doesn’t dare to look at her face, doesn’t dare to let her see the truth he’s trying so hard to conceal. The ancient greeting feels heavy on his tongue, poisonous and bitter just like before; he doesn’t belong here, he shouldn’t indulge to the spirit’s whims--not when he’s walking a dangerous path.

“ _Amae lethalas_.”

There’s a hint of amusement hidden between velvety words, like she’s smiling; water shifts into the lake, sounding too close, and he dreads what’s about to happen--but he doesn’t move from his post, even if he could, even if his treacherous body decided he’s had enough torture for an evening. Wet fingers against his skin, warm and soft; the touch feels too real, too wordly to be from a spirit; he loses his breath for a moment as gentle hands cup his cheeks, pulling his head up softly in an invitation he _should_ refuse.

But he can’t.

He looks up slowly, keeping his gaze away from her naked bosom as much as possible, heart leaping into his chest as he traces the lines of her face; she’s beautiful, _delicate_ in her almost divine gracefulness. Their eyes finally meet and he feels like choking on his own breath. Hers are a pool of bright whiteness, irises opaque enough to get lost in the sea of magic that pours like silent rain from her eyes.

It **hurts** to look at her, in a way he couldn’t put in words both known and forgotten, and not a second later he finds himself pressing his face against the curve of her neck, seeking for a comfort only someone so blessed could offer. She _knows_ him, from times long erased from memory, from fragments and bits of golden ages left in the Fade; blind to the awaken world, always watching from the Fade itself, from the eyes of spirits and creatures that dwell still on the Beyond.

The People used to have a word for her kind, and it’s been lost to wars and chaos just like everything else from their history.

(So much knowledge lost because of _him_.)

“I know I’m quite a sight for sore eyes, but it’s cold.”

The light-hearted accusation jolts him into motion and he pushes himself away, scrambling to his feet as if he were once more a hot-blooded youngster, red tinging his cheeks and the tip of his ears for a few moments. She laughs, arms wrapped around herself not in shame, but to keep her body steady as she snorts and giggles like a child, and the knot painfully stuck on his throat gets loose enough for him to swallow it back--and she’s still laughing as she climbs the lakeside slowly and pats the grass carefully, in search of her clothing.

“May I…” He clears his throat, shakes the awkward shyness away and slips back to the always-polite persona because it’s the right thing to do in the moment; her small, makeshift camp is close enough to the lake and her spare clothes are no far away than a few steps, so he rushes to them and back, places the soft fabrics into her hands. “Here. I deeply apologize for disturbing you, my lady..”

She smiles, brighter and gentler than before, and he needs a moment to remember how to breath--it’s something that’s been happening quite often tonight, and the urge to smack himself for such stupid thoughts is almost great enough for him to reach for his abandoned staff and just do it. Instead he turns away, offers her more privacy than he’s given her in the past minutes, and waits-- he should leave, really. He should walk away and forget this place and this woman but there’s something about her that won’t let him.

She’s more than another elf, more than another mage hiding in the woods, fearful of templars and Circles. She’s the _embodiment_ of the old, of what’s been lost to his selfishness. How is he supposed to **walk away** from that?

She’s sitting by a fire when he finally turns to her, dressed in light robes that resemble the ones of Keepers and elders of the Dalish, legs crossed and staff safely tucked by her side-- either to protect herself from him or to keep them both safe from the dangers lurking in the shadows, he doesn’t know. The bright light that’s filled her eyes before is gone, along with the overwhelming feelings that had assaulted him when he dared to look at her, and he’s grateful for her keeping the magic of the Fade to herself.

He’s exhausted and starving and she knows that; so instead of dwelling on his thoughts for a minute longer than necessary, he throws caution out of the nearest window and allows himself to step closer, taking the vacant place by the fire she’s so kindly offered.

Next thing he knows, his hands are curled around a warm bowl, with stew-like content that smells both familiar and welcoming. “ _Ma serannas, da’len_.” He says and sips on the stew, humming at the wonderful taste that fills his tongue. She smiles, head tilted softly towards him and he knows she’s **listening** ; curiosity sparks, and for a moment he wonders how she can see the world, if she can at all, beyond her connection to the Fade. Not that he’s going to pry, to poke and prod into matters that doesn’t concern him.

“I’m Ellana, from the clan Lavellan.” She says after a minute, hands resting on her lap. He nods at the greeting, out of habit, and swallows down the remaining of his stew before setting the bowl aside, shoulders tense as he fixes his gaze on her lithe form, wondering how much she knows, how much of himself she can _steal_ before she’s done. “Your Dread Wolf is showing, friend.”

The snort that escapes him is all but gracious and she laughs at the noise, tension dissipating easily under the jokes he didn’t expect to hear from someone so blended to the Fade and to the ancient magic. “I’m Solas.” He replies, adjusting his body to mirror her position, even if he knows she can’t see it-- it just feels **right** , somehow, like an ancient form of tradition that’s been forgotten even by his own spirit during his slumber. “Fen’harel came later.”

Ellana hums in understanding, fingers playing with the rim of her Dalish-styled shawl, tracing the lines gently. If she’s curious about his true face or in awe for meeting one of the “old gods” the elves worshipped for so long, he doesn’t know and he doesn’t push either. A comforting silence falls around the small camp and for once he relaxes in a place that isn’t his, accepts another round of stew when she offers it.

There’s no reason to  _fear_ her, he’s decided.

Not because she’s blind to the world of flesh and bone, bounded to the Fade and the Veil he’s crafted so many ages ago; he’s smart enough to notice the way she keeps the staff, close enough to reach, and the small scars covering her hands and face, the light armor barely hidden under the robes. She’s experient on the battlefield, probably someone that either left or has been left behind by her own clan a long time ago. A warrior that fought for her life whenever she needed to-- disabled, but not useless.

(There are more ways to see the world when one drowns in darkness.)

As silence stretches and she turns her attention to her own bowl of stew, he takes time to _really_ look at her, bare from the divine aura that clung to her before. There’s a lonely, old scar cutting her lips, almost reaching her chin and it doesn’t look like a battle scar-- that one looks like a result of someone bumping against the wrong side of their staff, in fact. Her pale face bares no vallaslin, only some freckles marking the bridge of her nose and disappearing into her cheeks, and when she smiles, he can see an adorable gap on her front teeth.

She’s an elf and a mage just like him, flawed and mortal.

(Perfect in her imperfection.)

There’s no reason to fear her because she’s an **equal**.

“I didn’t mean to disrespect you earlier, in the lake.” He says out of sudden, even before his mind could even register what he’s spilling, and for a second he wonders if it’s too late to smack himself with his staff. “I shouldn’t have approached like that nor touched you.”

“You did nothing wrong.” Lavellan replies, her empty bowl laid forgotten by her feet as long, delicate fingers work carefully on her hair. She braids the white locks slowly, still smiling with too much gentleness at his direction. “Fade bleeds from you, within you. Ancient magic weakened, concealed, caged behind too many doors that shouldn’t have been locked. Easy to see if one knows where to look. I wanted to touch you, to be sure you were real. The Veil is thin here, makes it hard to know who’s a person and who’s a spirit. But you’re both, and neither. I like you, Solas.”

He chuckles, sadness masked as contentment even if she can see behind the faked feelings he’s putting on display; it’s only a natural response, one he’ll never shake off no matter how hard he tries. It’s easy to lie and hide in the shadows, to pretend everything’s fine when the world seems to be falling apart on his head. The fire cracks and his attention shifts easily to the flames, away from the too many thoughts trying to pull him down.

“You mentioned a clan,” the Dread Wolf decides to change the subject, forces the conversation on her because he’s still curious, still interested. She nods, adding another thin braid to the growing pile over her shoulder. “Yet you carry no vallaslin.”

Horror dawns on her face for a moment before she schools her expression, shaking the sudden tension off her body as she focuses once more on her hair. She _knows_ , and the happiness that blossoms within his chest is too much to be contained. The Dalish have forgotten, but maybe some clans… maybe something, anything from their broken history can be saved, recreated and reshaped into something newer and more beautiful than ever before.

Hope is as treacherous as it’s comforting, and he finds solace in clinging to the new idea with all his might.

“I refused, when the Keeper said it was time.” Lavellan finally says, seemingly done with her hair; there are too many braids resting on her shoulder now, among free locks that resemble fresh fallen snow, and it’s just beautiful, breathtaking even. “I tried to explain what the markings were, to make them see, but… I suppose you’ve met some Dalish clans by now. So I left.”

“It must’ve been hard.” He replies gently, curiosity subduing into something akin to compassion; it must’ve been way too difficult to survive in a world that can only see her as the most evil enemy, in a world full of prejudice and malice. She shrugs, dodging the masked question as one would dodge a poisonous knife, and he laughs softly. “But you survived. You didn’t turn back on your beliefs. Sometimes the right path isn’t the easiest one. I’ve been on my own for some time, too. I woke to a world that… that I never thought I’d see.”

“And you like what you see in this new world?”

“No. I look around and all I can see is a world full of Tranquils, and our People and history forgotten and destroyed. The Dalish insult themselves, carrying slave marks with _pride_ \--”

And he swallows back whatever else he was about to spit, finally noticing her gaze on him; she can’t see him nor his expression, it’s true, but he doubts she can’t feel the angry, dangerous power thrumming under his skin, begging to be _released_. He takes in a deep breath, pushes the fury away from his muscles; acting like a youngling with no control whatsoever over his magic never helped anyone, and she surely wouldn’t appreciate the display.

“Forgive my melancholy.” He says, hands resting on his lap in a poor attempt to ease the anger still bubbling inside, hot and old and painful. “You remind me too much of what’s been lost. Enough of that. I hope you’re living in safe conditions, since you’ve left your clan.”

“The Dread Wolf cares more than the ‘great’ gods of old.” Lavellan offers a sweet giggle in response, child-like and soft, and he feels a shadow of smile dancing on his lips even if he tries to fight it for a moment-- it’s a lost battle and he simply decides to relax once more. “I swear ancestors are turning in their graves as we speak.”

(Oh, that’s something he’d never doubt, not even for a second.)

“I fought my way through the Arbor Wilds a few years ago, after leaving the clan.” She keeps talking, and he forces his attention to shift back to her words before his mind wanders away again to get lost in her beauty. “Ended up in an ancient place, a temple built for Mythal. And there were elves living there, but… Not like the Dalish. Ancient elvhen, the real deal. They weren’t happy that I disturbed their slumber, but they took me in.”

“Some of the People are... still alive?”

“Yes. They’re meant to watch over the _Vir’abelasan_ forever.”

“The Well of Sorrows.” Solas repeats, astonished and mesmerized, and she nods quietly, unaware of the small flame of hope and happiness growing within his spirit, pushing deep roots into his heart. “I’ve-- heard about it during my travels in the Fade. I believed it to be lost forever, just like the rest of our culture. But… we’re far away from the Arbor Wilds.”

“Something stirred in the Fade, and I was curious.” Lavellan just shrugs once more, and he just knows there’s more than that, more than what she’s letting him know. He doesn't push, though. It’s not his place to say, not his story to tell. It’s hers. “And… it was time to leave the temple. As grateful as I am for their support, I’m no protector. Maybe one day I’ll return to visit the _Vir’abelasan_ and offer all I know to it, like many of our People did before.”

It’s a honorable goal, one that he’d be happy to assist her with if she desired; but he sighs, pushes the thought away because how dare him? They’re not friends. They’re just strangers meeting in the middle of nowhere under the moonlight, nothing else. But he couldn’t just leave her, not when he knows she’s unique, special. She belongs to the People, his People, the ones still lurking in the depths of the forests, and he should make sure she finds her way back to where she truly belongs.

(He’s failed them all before, he can’t fail the last shreds of his shattered past too.)

“I’m heading towards Haven, a small place hidden between the mountains of Frostback. If you wish, you could accompany me.” He offers, pushing hope away because of course she’d **refuse**. (What was the old Dalish curse? May the Dread Wolf take you?) But she’s different and she knows more than most, even if raised among the ones that know nothing about their real culture. “I’ve traveled far through the Fade, and we could share knowledge of our discoveries. It’s a lonely path, _da’len_ , walking in between.”

“And one cannot remain in between forever.” She recites back, words dancing on the tip of her tongue as she smiles, blind eyes closing for only a moment as if she's considering his proposal--his breath hitches, caught on his throat, but he dives back into his safe mask before she can notice anything. “Yes, I’d very much like to join you. A silver tongue like Fen’harel might have the most wonderful tales to tell, after all.”

The title doesn’t come with anger, hatred as he once more expected to find. Instead Lavellan laughs and mocks the name, and he can’t help but smile in relief. In one night he’s found so much more than he’s found within an year of travelings, and he couldn’t be happier, more content. He knows it won’t last; just like her, he’s felt the shifting of power within the Fade, in a way that just screams something real bad will happen real soon.

But he can worry about that and his missing orb another night.

“I might have a few stories to tell right now, if you wish to listen.”

(Tonight, his only concern will be to satisfy her curiosity.)


	2. II.

Ferelden is nothing but mayhem and chaos, to put it lightly.

He’s heard about the war raging between mages and templars, about the fall of Circles and the many lives lost to battles that’d never see an end unless someone stepped in and tried to make them see the errors of their ways. It’s not his war nor his People. The elves amongst them are nothing but shadows of broken shadows, tainted and corrupted beyond salvation, and he turns a blind eye, keeps himself in the shadows, keeps Lavellan out of harm’s way; she’s more powerful than she lets him know and he can _feel it_. He feels the cracks of lighting and sharp breezes of winter lashing against his skin whenever danger is imminent, even if she tries to hide and conceal her magic behind too many layers of caution.

She relies on her staff to find her balance and the ground of a strange land when he can’t hold her hand, and together they make their way through paths long abandoned by travelers. It’s safe and serene, and she hums more often than not, fills their travels with merry tunes and ballads from better times and memories of when the People walked freely throughout the same roads they now cross.

Something in the back of his skull hints that she simply **enjoys** the way he cares and watches for her, amused and satisfied enough to follow him happily towards the north, towards his lost (and found by other’s hand) orb, or maybe she just loves to see him struggle; it’s an unfair game, this one they insist on playing. Beyond her blindness she can see more than most and he can only stumble blindly around her, trying to comprehend the true extensions of her powers and failing every time.

(As if he doesn’t truly enjoy such a sadistic game.)

It’s late when they finally set up camp around the borders of a small village, close enough to their destination but not there quite yet. They could’ve walked for a little longer and stopped by the village if so he wished, but there are too many templars around to attend to the Conclave now. If he were alone, things would’ve been different-- and he knows she’s no damsel in distress, he knows she can take care of herself with or without his help and she’s done it many times before but she’s the last of his People and some irrational part of him wants to-- **needs to** keep her safe at any costs.

She braids her hair in silence as he cooks; her skills are far better than his, it’s true, but he indulges it tonight and offers to take her place. It feels right, somehow. Friendship is something he’s never comprehended fully, always too worried about freeing the People from the old gods’ clutches. Getting too close to another one would mean worrying too much, caring too much--he’d end babying them when he had no time for such trivial things so he kept his distance, guarded his heart against any and every thing that could him deeply. It’s different now, with her. He’s _himself_ around her, because he knows she wouldn’t judge him, she wouldn’t push him away.

But sometimes it’s just too much. Sometimes he doesn’t recognize himself.  
Sometimes he doesn’t like to see the monster he’s become.

Her eyes are onto him now, but she doesn’t talk. He lowers his head, hides his shame and fear away before she can change her mind and attack him with too many questions and words he can’t hear right now--he doesn’t deserve her sympathy, her pity. The guilt gnawing him from the inside out is less than what he truly deserves and he allows it to fester, to grow bigger and bigger each passing hour. Instead he wonders about the colors of her eyes, could she see the world like him, about the color of her hair if she had not been dressed in delicate threads from the Veil in her birth.

Would it kill her, if he decided to rip the Veil apart right now?  
Or would it free her instead? Would his actions break the chains bounding and binding her?

Maybe she could survive the power of the Anchor; maybe she could survive _with_ its power.

He wants to ask, to demand answers he knows she hides close to her heart. The question burns in his tongue, treacherous and poisoning as his own past wrongdoings, mistakes he’ll never be able to undo no matter what he does, and he turns away, pretends such outrageous thoughts never crossed his mind in a moment of blind stupidity. He can keep her safe once the Veil is torn. He’ll be powerful enough to heal any damage left on her by his actions. The People need him to fix everything he’s done.

The stew is done and it smells better than last time he tried and the smile on her lips is more than enough to banish every harmful, depressing thoughts away from his mind. He presses a warm bowl to her hands and sits by her side, taking her hair into his fingers to finish the braid. The act feels too intimate, like they’ve known each other for all their lives, yet she doesn’t move away as he’s half expected her to do-- for a moment he thinks she presses her body against his crossed legs instead, humming into her stew, but he knows better than truly believe in such a thing.

(She sees the wolf, the rebel, the elder and nothing more.)

He decides against the pattern he’s been working on, unties the braid gently and starts over. The motions are relaxing and he truly appreciates she’s allowing him to do such an intimate thing for her--there are times he catches himself wondering if someone ever cared for her as much as he does, if anyone ever did something for her not because she’s blind, but because she deserves every small act of kindness. But maybe it’s better not to dwell in such thoughts, not tonight.

“Our People had a word for you in times of Arlathan.” He says instead, scooping another section of hair. “It’s been lost, like too many other wonders of our time. _Dirth’elgar_. They were seers, if I can use the word loosely.”

“Meaning?” Lavellan replies, setting the bowl by her feet to really press herself in a more comfortable position against his legs. He clears his throat, pretends not to feel his hands shaking for a moment and instead moves his focus back the task in his hands.

“There was no Veil in the times of Elvhenan. The Fade was our sky.” And he remembers it all, everything that’s been lost because of his harsh actions. The pride in his voice can’t be concealed and he doesn’t even try, just allows a shadow of smile to cling to his lips for a moment. “Imagine instead spires of crystal twining through the branches, palaces floating among the clouds. Imagine beings who lived forever, for whom magic was as natural as breathing.”

“It must’ve been beautiful.” She says after a moment, and he offers only a soft sigh in response. So much of that beauty has been lost, so many eons of knowledge _destroyed_ … but they could’ve lost it all. “Tell me about the ones like me.”

Her request is simple, the curiosity in her voice restrained almost as if she fears the answer, and it easily pushes his self-loathing away, banishes the wave of guilt trying to climb its way back into his heart. It’s good to talk, to tell tales about golden ages, to share what’s been forgotten to someone willing to listen.

(The crown-braid settles beautifully on her, like a queen from times beyond reach.)

“We all could reach the Fade and explore its wonders, learn from the spirits laying beyond. It was a delicate task, for there was much to learn before wandering into the Fade, and it’d take decades, centuries-- even from dreamers.” His body moves before he can notice, hands resting around Lavellan’s smaller frame as if to keep her closer. “The _dirth’elgar_ needn’t to wait for so long. For them, to walk into the Fade was as easily as walk into an eluvian. Even in golden ages they were rare spirits, and those who were found were preached as oracles, demi-gods. When war broke out, they were the first to disappear.”

“Do you know what happened to them?” Lavellan inquires, her fingers finding his easily; he doesn’t pull away when she holds his hands, pretends not to feel the way his heart beats a little faster for a moment.

“Sadly, no.” He could’ve protected them for a little longer if he knew. He could’ve kept them safe--but would have it mattered in the end, after the Veil? The too many unanswered questions are like a plague, gutting him from the inside out, and he shakes them off before it’s too late to turn back. “Many of our people fell to the Evanuris during the war. I believe the _dirth’elgar_ were to first to disappear.”

She hums in understanding, but there’s sadness barely concealed on her face; and he shares her grief, even if she never lived through that as he did. Mourning all those wasted lives is a sweet gesture, and he’s grateful he found her before someone else did-- before a templar or a slaver crossed her path, and the thought alone is enough to send shivers down his spine. He clings to her hands tightly, presses his face in the crook of her exposed shoulder and dwells on the softness of her skin just _because_.

(To make sure she’s real, she’s **here**.)

Feeling is straining from a path delicately crafted during agonizing years, it’s abandoning the People, _his_ People for something fleeting, unrequited. It’s wrong, foolish, dangerous. Falling for her would cost him too much; she doesn’t see it all, not the true monster lurking underneath nor the man willing to sacrifice his soul so his brethren can rise from the ashes once more. Lavellan sees shapes of broken mirrors, tainted glass behind burnt curtains. The wolf in sheepish clothing, playing pretend over and over so one day his lies can become the truth.

“I’m sorry our People lost so much.” She says, and he knows she means it; he’s sorry too, and more often than not he finds himself thinking about what he could’ve done to prevent their downfall--and he wonders why he keeps torturing himself like that, even if he **knows** the answer. The guilt is too great, too overwhelming sometimes and he deserves every moment of pain and frustration; he deserves to pay for what his brethren has lost-- but not yet, not before he fixes everything he’s broken.

So the Dread Wolf takes over and he pushes himself up, away from her arms just as he should’ve done too many minutes prior to that moment; and for a second she almost doesn’t let go, for a second he almost wishes she’d hold him in place and allow him to pour all his fears and doubts on her shoulders-- but then her fingers slip away back into her lap easily and he clears his throat, moves to sit as far as safely possible from her. Maybe everything will fall into place once he recovers his orb and his powers, maybe all the doubt and hesitation plaguing his mind will be gone once he sets his plans into motion.

He just needs to be a little more patient, a little more reserved.  
He needs to drown his feelings into a bottomless well and _forget_ about them.

(How many parts of himself is he going to throw away before he reaches the end?)

Easier said than done, of course, but the prospect of having yet another plan, one that’s way simpler than every other one, to follow is enough to ease his mind for the moment. He dares to look at Lavellan for a second--to just force himself not to care as much as he knows he should, as he truly does, and for once he’s grateful she can’t see his face, the way his hands are trembling around the staff. It’s easier to lie when his eyes can’t betray him.

Her expression is blank, almost cautious, guarded even. She knows he’s watching, waiting for something she can’t offer him right now-- and instead of dwelling on her lack of response, he takes it in his own behalf, uses it to seal away whatever feelings he has for her in a cage deep inside his soul. He shouldn’t have let it go too far, he shouldn’t have fallen so easily but he blames the nostalgia clinging to his soul whenever he talks to her, the longing for golden times that’ll never return to him-- he blames the loneliness, the guilt, the grief.

It’s not _love_ what he feels for Lavellan. It’s no more than passion, a strange kind of infatuation that soon will be gone and forgotten. She’ll find someone else eventually and he has no doubts of that. She’ll find someone she can see as a partner, a friend and he’s not that kind of man, he’s never been. He’s a rebel, a fighter, the one willing to do anything, to sacrifice everything without a second thought if the cause is just, righteous. How can she feel anything for someone so twisted and broken like him?

(He doesn’t deserve to be loved, anyway.)

* * *

They arrive at the small village close to Haven’s borders a few hours after dawn, and it’s quiet and peaceful despite everything else happening all over Ferelden. Maybe the Conclave being set so close to the place has something to do about it, and it’s not a bad thing at all. The fact they don’t need to worry about Templars or rogue mages alone is a good change of pace, for once. Between children playing and screeching and adults getting ready to their daily tasks, the village is sweet and humble-- the kind of place he’d be content to live in for long years if things were any different, if he could give up on his plans.

And despite his judgement, instead of turning their backs or sending them away, the humans welcome the couple warmly, happily. How rare it is to find kindness among people that aren’t his, in times of so much blood and chaos, and he indulges in the compassion they’re offering so freely. Sometimes he wishes there were other ways to deal with the Veil, less harmful, less dangerous than the path he’s taking because he’s no monster and the last thing he wants is other people to suffer for his actions-- but there’s no other ways, and he can’t afford to sit idle for much longer.

Lavellan finds her place amongst some small girls easily, allowing them to play with her hair as she teaches them old elven lullabies and tales from golden times. And the children listen carefully, repeating the words over and over until they get it almost right, tongue still heavy on an accent they’ve never listened to before--but it’s a sweet moment, and humans around don’t seem to be bothered at all by the seer’s doings; some of them linger around her for a bit longer, smiling to themselves as the words warm their hearts, and it’s the first time he’s seen humans accepting their tales so freely, welcoming their stories with open arms.

(It’s beautiful and endearing and once more he finds himself wondering if he’s truly doing the right thing.)

And just like the humans he stays close enough, because the tales she shares are far too different from the ones he’s heard from the Dalish people he stumbled upon during his travels. Her tales resemble those he once could’ve found in Vir Dirthara, filled with so much detail and beauty it’s hard to not cling to the nostalgia burning through his spirit, seeding its roots deep within his heart. She avoids talking about Fen’harel and the Evanuris, instead focusing on stories from before slavery fell upon his people, from times when peace reigned over Arlathan-- and he smiles at every lullaby, every ancient tale.

Tales he had believed to be lost to ages, shattered across time due his own foolishness, his egoism.

Yet something shifts within the Veil-- he feels it on the magic running through his veins, notices it on her expression as she turns her blind gaze to the sky. The wave of overwhelming power comes next, swift and deep as a blade; it steals his breath, leaves him gasping for air for too long a moment, heart beating faster against his ribcage. An explosion shakes the foundations of earth and blinds him mercilessly, throws him out of balance as if he didn’t know how to stand anymore-- he falls on the ground by Lavellan’s side, her hands tightening around his wrists before he could truly comprehend it, looking for a comfort he can’t offer in the moment.

There’s a sickening mix of green and black and red adorning the sky when his vision returns-- a breach in the Fade, forcing spirits into the awake world and twisting them into demons. The knot stuck on his throat feels painful, poisoning even, yet he swallows it dry, pretends he doesn’t know what has just happened. It’s easy to ignore Ellana’s questions when there are screams piercing through the air, when the raw magic pouring from the Fade is too much to be ignored; he dwells on the feeling for a moment, even if he knows he’s still too weak to recover his former self yet.

(It feels just right to be himself again after all that time, even if for nothing but a minute.)

“We have to go.” Somehow his voice echoes above the screams and cries of the villagers, fingers wrapped around Lavellan’s arm just as tightly as she holds him-- and for a moment he pretends not to feel her accusatory, yet blind gaze on his face, pretends he doesn’t know she knows way more than even himself; until he finds his orb and regains his powers, such small details can be overlooked for now. “Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine.” She replies, standing up before he could offer to help; he doubts she’s offended by his doings or his plans, but for a second he wonders if she’s truly willing to follow him to the edges of that numb world. It shouldn’t matter-- not as much as it does, and the Dread Wolf banishes the thoughts away quickly. “The Fade bleeds into this world. There will be too many demons on our way.”

“Then we should move on before the situation gets any worse.”

Her only answer is a soft nod, but it’s more than enough for him.  
Somehow it feels comforting to know he’s not walking such a dangerous path alone anymore.


End file.
